


Lost Chances

by laireshi



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Angst, Guilt, Hydra Steve Rogers, M/M, Not A Fix-It, Post-Secret Empire, Rape Aftermath, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhappy Ending, dehydrated Steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-11-30 14:33:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11465595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laireshi/pseuds/laireshi
Summary: “Did I hurt you?” Steve asks.“No,” Tony says.But Steve already knows what Tony lying to his face looks like.





	Lost Chances

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the following [prompt](http://cap-ironman.dreamwidth.org/1755776.html?thread=13461376#cmt13461376) at the Cap-IM kink meme: "After becoming de-hydrafied (dehydrated?) Steve's memories are a bit muddled. Some of the scraps of memory lead him to believe that he might have raped Tony, and the fact that Tony won't look him in the eye anymore isn't helping."  
> It probably got too long for a comment there, and it's not as if I am particularly anonymous either :P  
> Doubling as a bingo fill for "Apology". 
> 
> Mind the tags, seriously. While Steve's back to his normal self in this fic, there are flashbacks to Hydra Cap. No one dies, but they might not be happy to survive. 
> 
> I'd like to blame Faite for showing me the prompt in the first place, and Comicsohwhyohwhy and Navaan for encouraging the evil. Also, Comicsohwhyohwhy for making me make Tony cry.

“I don’t remember,” Steve says, but it’s not true. There are images, full of blood and pain and terror, and the worst part isn’t that he witnessed them, no: it’s that he _caused_ them. But it’s just flashes; Bruce Banner, Rick Jones, Tony—

God, _Tony_.

Steve looks around wildly, because he’s sure he’s seen the armour mere moments ago, but he can only remember Tony’s comatose body, brought down by Steve’s machinations if not by his hand—

He’s there, behind Strange. He’s back, even if Steve doesn’t know how. The only bright spot in this whole nightmare scenario.

“I remember some things,” he corrects himself, frowns. “The earliest parts, I think. Not all of them.”

Strange nods. “That’s to be expected,” he says. “It should all come back with time.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve says. “For all of it.” It’s so inadequate, but he doesn’t have anything else to offer.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Tony says almost immediately, and one by one, the other heroes start nodding around them.

Trust Tony to try and make him feel better when it’s the last thing Steve deserves.

Except later, when everyone leaves, Steve tries to talk to Tony—Tony’s familiar and safe and calming; Tony deserves a personal apology a million times over—and Tony dodges Steve’s extended hand, his eyes carefully avoiding Steve’s.

“Sorry,” Tony says. “There’s a lot to do—I need to—I have to go.”

Steve nods, because of course; they just stopped another disaster—Steve himself—and Tony always handles the clean-up himself. It’s just who he is.

(Tony used to always make exceptions for Steve, though, Steve thinks and scolds himself for how selfish he’s being.)

***

_Tony’s lips are soft and wet and his beard is scratching, but it’s the best feeling ever. His body is all smooth lines under Steve’s hands, lean but strong. He shivers when Steve touches him._

_But he’s not smiling, his face frozen in the mask Steve knows so well from watching his press conferences, a wince crossing it when Steve runs his hands down Tony’s back, over the curve of his ass—_

Steve sits up, panting. He’s uncomfortably hard, and he reaches to touch himself before the situation registers and he stops himself.

He’s dreamt of _Tony_. And that . . . might not be exactly new, but Steve’s not going to—

He remembers Tony’s expression, the almost painful moan escaping his lips, the way he wasn’t reaching out to touch Steve. And he doesn’t remember much more, not even how they ended up naked and sweaty, but there’s something about what he _does_ remember.

The details are too vivid. Too real. A memory, rather than a dream—and if it were a dream, it’d be a nightmare.

Because Tony didn’t want any of it.

Steve rolls over the side of the bed in the last moment and retches, but throughout all of it, there’s just one thought in his mind.

 _Please don’t let it be real_.

***

He needs to talk to Tony. He needs to know.

How the hell is he supposed to ask Tony about it, though? How the hell can he even make Tony be in the same room with him—talk to him—after—

He _can’t_.

It might not be true. It might be his subconsciousness, showing him the worst possible scenarios.

But what if it is true?

Steve can’t do it to Tony.

***

_Tony’s wrists are thin, Steve can easily hold both down with one hand. He presses his hand down on Tony’s neck, and kisses Tony’s shoulder blade in a gentle counterpoint. Tony’s skin is salty with sweat, his whole body trembling under Steve’s weight. Steve lines up and slowly pushes inside Tony. He’s barely stretched enough, and he goes as taut as a bowstring, pillow muffling any sounds he’s making._

_Steve keeps going until he’s completely buried in Tony, his chest pressed to Tony’s back. “So good to me,” he whispers into Tony’s ear, and Tony doesn’t even try to shake him off, just lies there and—_

Steve wakes up.

He doesn’t make it to the bathroom again, and he throws up and thinks _it’s not real it’s not real it’s not real—_

 _It is real_.

Tony could tell him. Steve won’t ask.

He doesn’t sleep after that.

***

Steve’s been awake for almost two days, but it’s not even the main reason he turns his phone off as he gets a reminder of the Avengers meeting he’s technically skipping now. It’s not as if they need him: he still hasn’t remembered anything of strategic importance.

But he’s remembered enough, and Tony will be at that meeting.

He’s watching bad TV when someone knocks on his door. He sighs. Figures they wouldn’t leave him alone. He can’t even blame them: he _is_ a risk, after all he’s done. But he couldn’t have gone.

He opens the door, expecting to see Sam, and steps back in terror as he finds Tony on his doorstep, his hand still raised as if to knock again.

Tony smiles at his sight, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You turned your phone off.”

“I—” Steve doesn’t know what to say. Why is it Tony here and not someone, anyone else?

Does it—does it mean Steve’s nightmares are only that, unreal fears?

Tony tilts his head questioningly.

Steve lets him in and locks the door before following Tony to his own living room. The TV is still on, and he mutes it, waits for Tony to say something as his eyes pass over the pizza box and cola cans.

Tony sighs, and he’s not quite looking at Steve as he says, “Here’s the thing, Steve. I think I know why you didn’t come today. You blame yourself. But, look, I’ve got a lot of experience in doing just that, so trust me—nothing was _your_ fault.” He stops, and he rocks on his feet, focuses his eyes somewhere in the corner, away from Steve. “You were brainwashed. _We_ didn’t notice that. We should’ve.”

The way he says _we_ , it sounds dangerously like _I_ , and nothing he’s said has actually answered Steve’s unvoiced question.

Tony’s here. It might mean Steve’s nightmares weren’t real. Or, the way he’s talking now, it might be his idea of a self-punishment.

Steve has to know, and he’s too tired to stop himself from asking. “Look at me,” he says.

Tony swallows, suddenly more tense than seconds ago, but he turns to Steve and keeps his eyes trained on him without arguing.

“Did I—” Steve stutters. He can’t make himself ask outright. “Did I hurt you?” he finishes.

“No,” Tony says.

Steve knows what Tony lying to his face looks like.

“The brainwashed me, then,” Steve says, very quietly. “Did he hurt you?”

“I’m fine,” Tony says.

It’s a _yes_ if Steve’s ever heard one.

“I’m fine,” Tony repeats, insistent. “I came here to check on you, you don’t have to worry about me, I’m fine—”

 _Fine_. Sure. Steve wants Tony to stop saying that. “Then touch me,” he snaps.

Tony blanches.

“Tony—”

Tony shakes his head, once, and reaches out to cup Steve’s cheek. His hand is steady, but his eyes look dead. He runs his finger over Steve’s cheekbone briefly, and slides his hand down Steve’s neck, to his collarbone.

Steve steps away in horror.

Tony seems to shake out of whatever state he’s in at that, and he snatches his hand back. “Right,” he says. “This was fun; don’t miss any more meetings.” He walks out before Steve can answer.

Steve can hear him opening the front door, and he has half a mind to follow, stop him and apologise and do anything to salvage this mess—but there’s nothing he can do without making it worse, is there?

He thinks he wants a drink; anything to make him forget—and wonders what Tony would think of him if he knew that, if there was any chance he could despise Steve even more.

***

_“Look at me,” Steve says, and Tony, slowly, does. He’s completely naked, the last rays of sun filtering in through the windows colouring his skin pink and orange. He’s beautiful. He keeps his eyes obediently on Steve’s face; still focused. Fighting._

_“Touch me,” Steve says, and Tony’s shivering all over as he reaches out and presses his hand to Steve’s cheek. He smooths his thumb over Steve’s cheekbone and slides his hand lower without any prompting, to the knot of Steve’s tie._

_Steve shakes his head._

_Tony steps closer and reaches out with his second hand too, opening Steve’s belt with shaking hands._

_“Good,” Steve says, and pushes him to his knees._

_Tony’s fumbling with his fly, his hands trembling too much to be of any use. Steve tuts at him, and pushes his trousers down himself._

_“ **Look at me** ,” he repeats, stroking himself, and it takes Tony a moment to obey this time. Steve runs his fingers into Tony’s hair and pulls lightly in a warning._

_Tony’s crying when Steve finally pushes into his mouth, tears running down his face as Steve fucks deeply into his throat._

Steve jolts awake.

Later, after he’s been sick again, he stands in the bathroom and washes his mouth. He sees his reflection in the mirror, and he punches straight through it, glass shattering everywhere. The pain emanating from his hand is sharp and nothing in comparison to the knowledge of what he’s done to Tony.

For a moment he’s almost tempted to run the glass shards through his wrist, and then he shakes himself. He’s got amends to make. Not to Tony: nothing can fix that. But to the world.

***

Steve goes to the next Avengers meeting and stands at the far wall the whole time. There’s talk of rebuilding and reparations and fixing everything, and Steve feels guilty and useless the whole time.

Tony talks a lot, already having plans to rebuild Vegas, and a lot of his armours are steered by FRIDAY helping with heavy-lifting elsewhere. He’s acting the perfect team leader, and everyone nods as he speaks.

Steve can’t bring himself to look at him.

The meeting ends, finally, and Steve rushes to exit, except Tony’s voice holds him in place.

“Wait,” Tony says, and Steve turns back immediately, because he can’t refuse Tony that.

Even if nothing good can come out of it.

They stand away from each other as all the other Avengers filter out, Strange throwing them a worried look before he teleports.

“He said,” Tony says finally, swallows. “He—do you remember?”

Steve shakes his head. “Dreams,” he says. “Memories, I guess, but it’s spotty. I don’t—I don’t even know if it’s chronological.” He doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t want to remember. He wants to rebuild the Cube and make it all as if it never happened at all.

Tony’s not looking at Steve, which is still jarring, considering his normal attitude to meet everything head on, put on a mask and pretend—but he’s so brave just being here in one room with Steve.

“He said you loved me,” Tony says at last.

Steve can’t help a broken laughter escaping his lips. “Yes,” he says.

“Well,” Tony says, barely audible. “That’s a conversation that might’ve helped before.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, quietly, so inadequate.

“Not your fault,” Tony repeats like a mantra. “You know. He didn’t—he didn’t make me do anything I hadn’t wanted.”

He’s lying, and he’s not, and Steve wants to yell at him and make him stop pretending he’s fine when in reality he’s shattering, it’s so _obvious_ if you know where to look, but he keeps quiet. He’s not going to raise his voice at Tony, he’s not going to stand even one step closer to him, he’s not going to do anything with Tony ever again and Tony probably already knows that.

How can Tony still tolerate his presence?

Steve stays silent, because he can’t think of anything to say that won’t make things worse than they already are.

Tony looks down. “I wanted to know, I guess,” he says. He doesn’t need to explain himself to Steve. “Fit it inside my head; what’s true and what isn’t.”

Steve nods.

“It’s not your fault,” Tony repeats; Steve’s lost count which time it is now. “And—I’ll keep on telling you that. If you need me to.”

How can Tony even talk like that?

“I need you to be okay,” Steve lets out, his throat dry. “I don’t need you to stay still in my presence, Tony, I don’t need you to _force yourself_ to do anything, I—” He stops. It’s _Tony_ he’s talking to. “So it’s not my fault,” he says, the words tasting like ash. “Does it really change anything?”

Tony looks up, meets Steve’s eyes for a second before turning away. “It doesn’t,” he admits, quiet and defeated. “We’re one big lost chance, and it’s not your fault, but I _can’t_.”

Progress, to hear Tony say as much.

“It’s not your fault, either,” Steve says, because the _we should’ve noticed_ is still too fresh in his memory. “And I _am_ sorry.”

Tony doesn’t argue the point anymore.

“I should go,” Steve says.

“Yes,” Tony agrees.

It’s gotten late: the sun is setting behind the ceiling high windows, the play of colours on Tony’s skin amazing. He looks beautiful.

It doesn’t matter anymore. It can never matter anymore.

Steve’s hurt his best friend and the man he loved beyond all fixing, and it’ll never not be his fault.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't want to discuss current canon here; I like writing dark otp things and that's what I do. My opinions on storylines and characters are different things and not necessarily reflected by my topic of choice. Also, opinions expressed by the characters are not the author's opinions.


End file.
